


The Mountain In Labor

by dragonofdispair



Series: Unrelated Prompt Responses [33]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM themes, Cultural Differences, Energy Field Sexual Interfacing, M/M, Police, Relationship Discussions, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-War: Effort in the face of difficulty, because of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One scene -- ONE -- was written for the for the writing group's anon conversation challenge: write a scene where one of the characters is anonymous to both the other character(s) in the scene and the reader. So I wrote it (you can probably figure out which conversation it is), but then couldn't leave it alone and it sprawled out into a full-blown sequel.
> 
> Thanks to Darth Krande and 12drakon for betaing.

Prowl hated traffic duty. He was a Homicide cop, but everyone did a rotation on Traffic two orns every ten. It was a fact that simply had to be accounted for, like his two upcoming court dates and the six unclosed cases currently sitting on his desk at the station. Or the fact that there was a 70% chance he’d end up working on his one day off this decaorn. That said, there was something especially annoying about being assigned to patrol Little Polyhex for traffic violations. This was the first time he’d been assigned to this area since he’d begun dating Jazz. Disrespect for the traffic laws seemed hard-coded into that frametype, and those who could afford the fuel favored racing alts, turning every routine stop into an exercise in frustration.

Add in Polyhexians’ strong clan loyalties, a powerful criminal caste that was accepted in their culture, and an _us versus them_ mentality in regards to Praxus’ police -- it just wasn’t safe for him to venture too far into the ghetto as a traffic cop. Police called the area the _No Fly Zone_ , and they were forced to avoid it. Most of the residents of Little Polyhex were perfectly law-abiding, but there was always that significant subset of any population that weren’t. That criminal caste very definitely controlled the streets of the _No Fly Zone_ . As Homicide Prowl and his partner didn’t worry as much. Those visits were in and out, on a mission, working cases everyone there -- including the Families -- wanted solved, and he always had his partner with him. Counting his dates with Jazz, some of which were in the _No Fly Zone_ , and the nights he’d spent at his lover’s apartment, Prowl probably had been in the deep parts of Little Polyhex more than any other officer that didn’t work the Organized Crime division. That didn’t mean he was safe there without Jazz’s escort. Traffic cops had to _linger_.

His plating already itched in anticipation of a long and stressful shift.

He’d been hunkered down in the speed trap on the main highway through Little Polyhex for only ten minutes before he saw his first speeder.

He hit his lights, siren spinning up in anticipation of a chase… only to almost pass his quarry in surprise when the dark green Polyhexian racing alt pulled over to shoulder without a fuss.

Prowl backed up to pull up next to the car and transformed. By rote he leaned over and asked “Are you aware of how fast you were going, Sir?”

There was a script. _I’m afraid I’m not, officer_ , was the usual response.

“Prolly thirty kils over the speed limit,” the mech surprised him a second time. “Prowl, Jazz’s new beau, right?”

Reeling from this new development, Prowl automatically answered, “Yes,” even as he generated the speeding ticket and sent it to the mech’s -- he pinged the mech’s IFF systems for his ID and properly log the ticket --  Ditch’s communication suite.

“Thought so,” Ditch answered. “Jazz tell you there’s a bit of a get-together over on Seventh and Cross Street in a few orns? You’re invited.”

Jazz had not. “I’ll consider it. Please stay under the posted speed limits in the future.”

Ditch accepted the ticket with a cheerful waggle of his side mirrors. “You betcha.”

Prowl stepped back, and Ditch cruised away.

He filed the strange incident in his processor, with a note to himself to bring it up with Jazz next time he saw his… beau, and returned to the speed trap to wait for the next speeder.

Not _all_ of the traffic violators he caught pulled over nicely and took the opportunity to chat -- wanting to know how things were going with Jazz, or inviting him to the party, or just passing on some tidbit of gossip he didn’t have the social connections within the ghetto to understand -- but enough did that he finally had to admit to himself that something about his situation had changed. These mechs weren’t seeing him as a Praxan cop -- an enemy -- but as Jazz’s beau, who happened to be a cop. Even those who had made Prowl chase them had been a lot more playful and lightsparked about it than he was used to, more ritual than a true attempt to evade him. It was disconcerting. He had more trouble pulling over Praxan speeders than the traditional Polyhexian troublemakers.

.

.

“Didn’t think it was your kind of scene,” was Jazz’s reasoning when Prowl asked about the _get together_ , “Lotta people, loud music. Gambling, drugs… the sorta things that get you one’t’five vorns in Praxus, but’re perfectly fine in the right context in Polyhex. And a block party’s definitely the right context.”

 _And if you go, you can’t arrest any of them,_ Prowl heard tacked onto the end of that sentence, though Jazz had never once implied that their relationship should affect Prowl’s job at all. Not even to bail him out of the drunk tank; Prowl had found out that Jazz had spent the night in lock-up for intoxicated street racing three orns after he’d been released (and paid the fine) only because Crosswise, his partner, had plunked Jazz’s rap sheet down on their shared desk as part of his continuing campaign to get Prowl to break it off with Jazz.

Crosswise had chosen a poor method, in this case; Prowl had known about Jazz’s rap sheet already. Traffic tickets (mostly for speeding, some of which had been written by Prowl himself), reckless driving, street racing and public intoxication… There was nothing there that Prowl hadn’t already decided he could live with. Crosswise had been very disgusted that this “revelation” had had no effect.

Prowl was a homicide cop. Laws were what a stable society was built on and watching them being broken itched at his coding. But after walking into a serial killer’s personal abattoir and sending the pieces of five different mechs to the coroner for identification, because there weren’t enough large pieces to do an on-scene ID… and then finding the victims’ fuel packaged, sorted, and stored in the killer’s personal supply of energon… Well, Prowl had found that there were a lot of lesser crimes he could live with. Drug and gambling charges were something he used as a threat to get a person of interest to talk to him, ignored, or passed on to Vice, whichever he felt was appropriate, depending on how serious the case he was currently working was. Prostitutes he didn’t even bother -- he needed them willing to talk to him, and they wouldn’t snitch to him if he had a rep for arresting them. He ran a quick comparison between Praxus’ and Polyhex’s legal codes (it went quickly, since this was actually something he’d done many times) and on the list of vices that were crimes in Praxus but not in Polyhex he found nothing he couldn’t ignore for a chance to see Jazz and meet the people he called friends.

“I would still like to go, if only for a short while,” Prowl answered. “I’ve always been curious about these.” Polyhexian block parties were one of those things he’d read about, but never thought he’d ever see. They had been simply an interesting bit of cultural trivia… until now.

Jazz smiled, “I’ll make sure no one hassles you.” Then he sobered. “You sure? Gonna be at least a few Family members there. Don’t want to get you in trouble.”

The Families were the responsibility of the Organized Crime division, but several of Prowl’s cases had ultimately proven to be committed by one Family or another. It was a strange quirk of Polyhex’s history that made these organized crime clans an accepted and acceptable part of their society, even as the police still hunted them for the crimes they _did_. A strange dichotomy within Polyhex and a constant source of frustration outside it, since Polyhexian immigrants almost always knew at least one Family member personally, but would never admit it to an outsider.

Jazz knew someone, Prowl thought, but then dismissed it. It would be stranger if Jazz did not know someone. Was that something Prowl could live with?

He considered his own carefully cultivated network of informants and snitches. He didn’t protect them from prosecution (usually), but he sometimes petitioned for lighter sentences or even outright ignored their crimes in return for the information they gave him. Maybe if he considered Jazz’s connections in that light? Prowl couldn’t ignore murder of course, nor would he intervene on behalf of a career criminal, but for Jazz could he refrain from actively hunting, unless he was given a case?

Yes, he probably could. He didn’t go digging into the Families’ business looking for murders on a regular basis, as it was. So unless someone admitted something in his presence (unlikely), or a murder case crossed his desk, Prowl resolved that this would not be a problem.

“I understand,” is what he said.

.

.

The block party was as advertised.

Six intersections, right in the middle of the _No Fly Zone_ , had been crudely cordoned off with furniture, or the goal-nets for various impromptu sport games, or just the sheer press of mechs crowded together. Energon -- or more likely engex -- was being served out of large, communal barrels; everyone who came brought something, added it to a barrel, then was free to take what they wanted. Prowl watched the midgrade he’d brought fizz and pop as it was added, and vowed not to drink any of it. Jazz, on the other hand, watched the fireworks his higher-grade addition caused with glee and served himself a cup of the violently blue fuel with green fizzy bubbles. Hopefully the color was just an effect of the strings of green lights hung over this part of the street.

Then there were the introductions. Everyone, it seemed, had heard that Jazz was dating a police officer and wanted to meet him. Dozens of mechs crowded around, eager to get a look at him, talk to him, and exchange news and gossip with Jazz. Usually that would have been the best reason for Prowl to leave, quickly, but Jazz enforced a strict no-touching policy around Prowl and it wasn’t long before the crowd parted around Prowl, even when Jazz wasn’t right next to him.

It was strange to be around this many mechs and not feel the itch-burn of unintentional contact. Strange not to flinch from wandering hands and enthusiastic greetings.

He even managed to talk, not interview or interrogate, to a few mechs who were curious how well their engines compared to a police pursuit vehicle.

“Prowl,” Jazz called from within a knot of his fans. “You okay on your own for a few kliks? These fine gentlemechs want me to do a set.”

Was he? He watched a staggering drunk couple wander into what Jazz had decided was Prowl’s personal space, only for them to be gently caught by the two street racers he’d been talking to. Someone else asked why they were keeping their distance from the officer, got an answer -- “Jazz’s beau; look but absolutely no touching” -- and spread the word without judgement. It made Prowl feel… safe, he supposed.

“I will be fine,” he answered, and Jazz beamed at him as he was dragged away to the makeshift stage set up at the intersection of Seventh and Cross Street.

The first few chords of Jazz’s electric sitar blasted out over the crowd of gathering listeners and dancers. Prowl loved listening to Jazz’s music, but much preferred the songs sung in private -- without the catcalls and shouts. And he was curious about the rest of the party. There was supposed to be a flea market at the other end. He finished up his conversation with the street racers and headed that way, still amazed that he was attending a party and actually enjoying himself.

Away from Jazz, far fewer people introduced themselves, though just as many stopped to talk. No one wandered close enough to risk an accidental touch. They didn’t ask his name either -- in Polyhex, unlike Praxus, exchanging names was only done either in an official capacity, or through an introduction by a third party. It was hard, occasionally, not to inform his conversation partners of his name, but he didn’t want anyone to think he was here as a police officer rather than a guest.

There were parts of the party that were difficult in other ways as well. He pointedly turned away from a pair interfacing on a blanket laid out on the sidewalk, surrounded by their friends and the catcalling passersby. Praxan sensibilities insisted he go over and break it up, but these weren’t Praxans, even if they were currently in Praxus. And given the couple’s… vocalizations, he didn’t think either of them needed interference from a police officer.

He also refrained from breaking up the various games of chance he saw money being exchanged in. He could have memorized names and faces to pass on to Vice, but what was the point? The majority of these mechs lived in the _No Fly Zone_ and no Vice cop was going to come here to arrest the participants of a friendly game.

The same went for other minor infractions. There were surprisingly few pickpockets for a gathering of this size, but braziers filled with various intoxicating substances were in evidence. Those were mild and he didn’t see any circuit boosters or Syk. Not out on the street at least, and he wasn’t going to poke through the wide open businesses and apartment buildings to look.

Mostly he saw people. Laughing, talking, dancing, singing _people_ who all wanted to exchange gossip and news but were careful to respect a boundary they didn’t understand. He thought about bringing his partner next time he got word of one of these get-togethers to show him these weren’t all career criminals, but he dismissed it. Prowl wasn’t looking for them, but he knew there were career criminals -- members of the Families -- here in the crowd.

The flea market started on Tenth and continued past the makeshift cordon on Twelfth Street that marked the official edge of the block party. Prowl wouldn’t have believed that so much _stuff_ \-- from vid-disks to furniture -- could be bought and sold in such a small space. Idly he wondered how much was stolen.

Not as much as his coworkers would try and tell him was, he thought as he watched one vendor haggle over a box of datapads in various states of disrepair. They finally settled on a price, and other mechs pounced on the newly available goods. Most of it was just junk, but it still held value here.

He did find a pair of data chips with sheet music on them. He didn’t know enough to determine what instrument they were for, but he bought them anyway. If they weren’t for a sitar or similar instrument, then it would be amusing watching Jazz translate them.

_“Prowl? Never thought you’d be the one to wander off.”_

_“I’m at the flea market_ , _”_ Prowl answered, already turning to head back towards the stage at the other end of the party.

_“Ya need to go home?”_

_“No. Everyone has been extremely respectful. I’d like to stay longer.”_

_“As long as you like.”_

Slowly he worked his way back towards the stage. He did want to spend some of the evening with his lover.

He exchanged greetings and racing tips with a one group, then risked a couple of oil cakes being peddled by a femme who swore they’d been made with midgrade. He stopped to watch a game of hurlee that was rather more violent than Cybertronian Standard rules allowed.

“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you,” someone said, over the noise of the players and the onlookers.

Prowl turned to look. A dark grey and black Polyhexian with a yellow visor stood just inside the perimeter Jazz had laid down, which so far had been respected, though he still was outside casual touching distance. Around him, others watching the game nearby tensed, putting Prowl slightly on edge. Still, manners. Polyhexians were a tightly knit community, and whatever he did might reflect negatively on Jazz. “Very well. Shall we step someplace more quiet?”

Comparing this mech to Jazz was, perhaps, inevitable. They were very similar frametypes, but they moved very differently. Both were fluid and graceful, but Jazz moved with a cheerful bounce that Prowl simply loved to watch; this mech walked with a poised confidence that spoke of leashed violence. In lieu of anywhere truly private to go -- not that he wanted to be in private with this mech, Prowl thought, watching nervous optics follow their progress -- he headed to one of the candy peddlers and bought a pair of treats, politely offering one to the mech.

“Thank you,” the mech said, then took his own turn to lead them, this time only to the wall of the nearest building so that they could lean against something solid as they ate.

Dangerous… Prowl shook away the feeling. It wasn’t baseless, but the mech had not acted threatening. Yet. He waited for the other to make the first move.

“It’s quite surprising to find a police officer willing to come this far into, what do you call it, the _No Fly Zone_ without backup,” was the mech’s opening salvo.

So that’s what this was about? This would not be the only Polyhexian who had issues with Prowl’s profession. However, Jazz’s reputation meant his acceptance of Prowl had, so far, been extended by the entire community. “Jazz brought me.”

“Yes. Jazz…” The mech trailed off, then narrowed his optic band at Prowl. “Then we will get straight to business. Jazz has had some very unfortunate luck choosing his paramours in the past, and I do hope, for your sake, that my nephew’s taste has improved recently.”

In other words _hurt my nephew and I’ll kill you_ . Hearing the threat made Prowl relax somewhat. This wasn’t really about his job or his status as a non-Polyhexian; it was what some of his coworkers had in the past called _the shovel talk_. The obligatory threats against a young family member’s new significant other. Not just a tradition, but practically a requirement, if the mech was young enough to still be living with older family. By the time they reached Prowl’s age, Praxan parents stopped giving new lovers the shovel talk, but Polyhexians were much more tightly knit clans.

“I’ve no intention of harming Jazz in any way,” he assured the mech. “Your nephew is, quite honestly, the best thing that has ever happened to me, and every klik he choses to spend with me is a gift from Primus Himself.”

The mech’s yellow optic band flickered off, then back on, in surprise. Then he smiled. He was still as dangerous as a blade, but now he was a sheathed one. “Well said. And as long as that continues to be the case, _I_ don’t see any reason why we should have any problems.”

The mech stalked away, the crowds parting before him, in respect rather than because of an overly large personal space bubble, and he quickly disappeared. After a moment, Prowl continued back towards the stage, and Jazz.

.

.

Jazz did not find his uncle’s threat as benign as Prowl had. When Prowl had told him about the encounter, Jazz had gaped, then growled, and finally insisted on leaving the block party early. He wasn’t _jumpy_ precisely, but he escorted Prowl all the way back to his apartment near the precinct, and hesitated when Prowl offered to let him spend the night. Jazz had finally acquiesced, but they hadn’t interfaced. Jazz just pulled some energon from Prowl’s dispenser (midgrade for Prowl and lowgrade for himself, since he was still slightly buzzed from the nearly-toxic mix from the barrels), then settled on the couch to sleep.

It sagged beneath his weight, and Prowl made (another) note to replace it soon. Or, better yet, get a second berth for that space. Jazz was extremely understanding about not being able to recharge in the same berth as Prowl, and a lack of any place for a second person to recharge here was the reason they usually spent their nights together at Jazz’s apartment. Jazz had two berthrooms.

Prowl’s apartment only had a single berthroom. But he himself didn’t use the couch, for anything, and he didn’t have any company over except Jazz and occasionally Crosswise. He could replace the couch with a second berth.

Jazz was often up before him (though he knew that the singer got up to see him off to work, then went back to sleep), and today was no exception.

He was still tense, and that tenseness echoed through his field and made Prowl’s plating itch sooner than it otherwise would when they held hands across the table while they drank their breakfast. As always Jazz let Prowl pull back when it became uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?”

Jazz’s answering smile was rueful. “Can’t hide anything from you. Love you for that.”

“You also love me because you can’t divert my attention, or so you say. What’s wrong?”

“Spent the night thinking,” Jazz leaned forward urgently. “When you go inta work, go straight to Organized Crime. Tell them about the party, and that you think you might’ve talked to a high-ranking Family member. Tell them about the conversation you had with m’uncle -- don’t leave anything out. Offer your memory as evidence if they need it. You ain’t dirty and neither of us want them thinking it for a klick. Got me?”

That was a closer connection than Prowl had thought his lover had. Primus certainly was testing Prowl’s resolution. “Tell me?”

Jazz looked pained. “After you get off work,” he promised. “Assuming you still want ta talk to me once the D-- once your coworkers’re done. We don’t have time now.”

If that’s the way Jazz wanted to play this, then there was nothing Prowl could really do about it short of arresting Jazz and attempting to have this discussion in an interrogation room. And Prowl didn’t have any justification for such an arrest, save that it would keep Jazz from running from him for a few joors.

Doing so wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, it itched and burned from the very first brush of plating, but Prowl forced himself to give Jazz a hug and to hold on until some of the tension bled from his lover’s field. “I’ll call you. The _klik_ that I’m available, I promise.”

“‘Kay,” Jazz sounded a bit stunned. It wasn’t often -- more like _never_ \-- that Prowl was the one to initiate contact. “Gonna go kick m’uncle’s aft, but I’ll be waiting for you after.”

Prowl looked at Jazz, alarmed. That didn’t sound safe, but Jazz waved it away. Prowl had to trust that Jazz knew what lines he was and wasn’t allowed to cross within his own family. He let the hug go slowly, and his hand lingered on Jazz’s cheek, making Jazz look at him. “Be safe.”

“I ain’t the one I’m worried about here.”

.

.

It was Crosswise’s turn on Traffic, which meant Prowl shouldn’t be passed any new cases. He might be asked to consult, since he had a very good processor for impacts and angles, but unless someone asked for him, he would usually be left alone to do the paperwork from his open and recently closed cases.

He turned the problem over and over in his head several times on the short drive to the precinct, but couldn’t figure out a better way to proceed than Jazz’s suggestion. At least not for his career; it would probably be better for Jazz if Prowl attempted to keep it a secret for as long as possible. But then when it was discovered -- because it _would_ eventually be discovered that he was courting the nephew of a high ranking Family member -- it would be much messier. Best to bring it up front as soon as possible, and trust that Jazz wouldn’t have done something as _idiotic_ as try courting a police officer if his involvement went further than a quirk of biology.

So he checked in with his division, gathered a few datapads on his desk to work on during the inevitable waiting, then headed over to Organized Crime. He ran into an officer almost as soon as he opened the door. Quickly he stepped back to avoid a collision.

“Corporal Prowl!”

Prowl didn’t recognize him. “Yes.”

“I’d just been sent to fetch you. Lieutenant Turbine and his partner wanted to talk to you.”

Given that the entirety of Little Polyhex had to be talking about the police officer who’d attended the party last night, this was not a coincidence. Murder cops weren’t the only ones who had snitches. “I will speak with them immediately.”

The junior officer looked relieved.

Lieutenant Turbine was also a black and white Praxan frametype, which was standard for officers, but his accents were deep rich purple rather than Prowl’s red. His partner, Beacon, according to the nameplate on their shared desk, had a duskier shade of purple, edging towards pink.

“Lieutenant Turbine? Corporal Prowl.” Praxans always wanted each others’ names.

Turbine looked up, blinked his optics once in surprise. “That was fast.”

“I was already coming to see you, and I suspect, about the same thing.”

“Right,” Turbine said. “Several of my informants saw you at the little Poly-rats’” -- Prowl’s doorwings went up and back in offense at the derogatory term, which of course both officers noticed, “little get-together.”

Beacon snagged a nearby chair and pulled it over, patting it to indicate Prowl should sit. He debated the merits of doing so. This was going to be an unpleasant conversation, he could already tell, and he didn’t want these two believing that his cooperation meant he agreed with their views; on the other hand, this could potentially be a _long_ unpleasant conversation.

With his foot Prowl scooted the chair a short distance away before sitting in it. “I attended the block party, yes. I was informed, later, that I had engaged a ranking member of one of the Families in conversation while there.”

 _That_ made them pause. Turbine snapped his mouth closed, whatever he’d intended to say dying in his vocalizer.

Beacon shook it off first. “Who’d you talk to?”

And that made _Prowl_ pause, doorwings twitching uncertainly for a moment. “I still do not actually know who he was. We didn’t exchange names.”

“Right,” Turbine recovered from his shock. “Party. No names. There are times when I think they came up with that ‘tradition’ just to frag with us.”

Difficult as it was to adhere to, since he had been conditioned by Praxan culture to always offer his name to a new acquaintance, Prowl actually found that a clear signal between _official business_ and _off duty_ was preferable. So he narrowed his optics and refrained from comment.

Turbine sighed. “Alright. We’ll start from the beginning, since you’re offering this information in good faith. Who invited you to the block party?”

“I was originally invited by a mech named Ditch. Jazz confirmed the invitation and escorted me.”

The two officers exchanged glances, all four doorwings going still as the officers controlled their reactions. Not good. Jazz’s name was known to Organized Crime -- expected, since his uncle was apparently an influential Family member. But that glance wasn’t just because they recognized the name.

“And what is your relationship to Jazz?”

 _Don’t leave anything out_. Jazz’s words. Prowl would have preferred not having these two prying into their relationship, but it helped to know that Jazz didn’t expect Prowl to keep any secrets. “He and I have been courting for almost half a vorn.”

“Courting!” Beacon squeaked.

Prowl just flared his doorwings aggressively. “Yes,” he said flatly, in a tone that should discourage prying. “He is the one who told me my accidental conversation was something I should tell you about. No,” he cut off Turbine’s question before it could be voiced, “I did not know he was related to… whoever I talked to, before last night.”

“Relative of Jazz’s,” Turbine mused, looking at Beacon rather than Prowl.

“Narrows it down to one Family.”

“Mech’s related to three-quarters of the fraggers in the _No Fly Zone_.”

“‘High ranking’. Jazz’s words or yours?” the sudden question was directed to Prowl.

“Jazz’s.”

They turned back to each other. “That means Ricochet, Scalloper, or Titanium.” Both mechs’ doorwings quivered at that last name.

Prowl was beginning to see why Jazz thought Prowl might not want to continue seeing him after this. But he _knew_ Jazz, where these mechs didn’t. “Files,” he said flatly. “You have narrowed him down to three. I can point out who I spoke to from your surveillance holos.”

Three holos were presented, and Prowl pointed out the steel-grey and black mech he’d spoken to. Both officers’ optics bleached white. Interesting.

“What did you and the _head of the Polyhexian Mob_ talk about?”

Prowl had expected Jazz’s relative to be high ranking, but not _that_ high. He consciously stilled his doorwings, lest he give any hint of his reaction away to the officers, knowing they’d pass it off as attempting to control his shock. He’d have to think about this, because this made things _complicated_ , but he did not want to do so while under Turbine and Beacon’s scrutiny. It wasn’t any of their business.

“He wanted to be assured I knew the consequences for hurting his nephew. No,” Prowl interrupted again, “I will not testify to the threat. I don’t need police interference in a private matter between myself and my courtmate’s family.”

Turbine pulled out another file. Jazz’s. “I think you should know just who you’re dating, before you say that.”

Prowl knew who Jazz was. Persistent, understanding. Jazz loved music, and the need to sing and dance was encoded in his spark. He was fun and passion. He danced around the park making fun of himself to smooth over Prowl’s mistaken choice of a date venue. He was kind and adventurous and didn’t see Prowl’s oversensitivity as an obstacle to be overcome or fixed, but as an essential part of _Prowl_ that he loved as much as any other.

He took the file anyway.

Jazz’s rap sheet he was already familiar with, so he skipped that. He was more interested in what Turbine and Beacon suspected him of than what he’d been convicted of.

Withholding evidence and obstructing an investigation (presumed, since it had never been conclusively proven that Jazz knew the answers to the questions he’d been asked) Prowl had already concluded was inevitable given the situation. Rent fixing he did not expect. Charging inflated rent for sub-standard housing in several buildings throughout Little Polyhex he owned. Prowl frowned. While not as high profile or dramatic as either murder or drug smuggling or similar crimes, this was a form of preying on those who could not protect themselves. Combined with the Family connection, it turned into a form of racketeering. It was a very serious crime in Praxus, which did it’s best to guarantee a healthy standard of living for all its citizens.

He refused to believe it of Jazz. It didn’t fit what he knew. People trapped with those sorts of landlords knew their situation was miserable and rightly blamed the landlord, and Jazz was well known and well respected. He’d seen that last night, with how far Prowl had been able to wander from Jazz’s side and be protected by his lover’s reputation. So he read the rest of the file. There were flaws; he just had to find them.

The first one was, “You’ve got his address wrong.”

Turbine looked up from Titanium’s file. “What?”

“Jazz’s address is wrong. He doesn’t live in that house with his twin,” and Prowl didn’t wonder why Jazz hadn’t told him about Ricochet; a Family enforcer wasn’t someone _he’d_ claim as kin while dating a police officer either. “He lives here,” Prowl flipped back to the list of buildings they claimed Jazz ran. “On the sixth floor. 607.” Turbine’s file didn’t have a known tenant listed, but the file didn’t have known tenants listed for most of Jazz’s apartments; apparently, about two-thirds of the tenants did not have written rental agreements. “I’ve been there, and it is definitely Jazz’s place of residence.”

The two officers exchanged looks again, doorwings jerking upwards in mirrored expressions of interest. “You’ve been there?”

“Affirmative.”

“And you’re sure he lives there?”

Prowl gave Turbine a scathing look. “I am capable of telling the difference between a residence and a bolthole.” It was the little things. The wear and tear on the curtains, the two sitars and the always-empty stand for a third, the well-used collection of datapads and vid-disks, the constantly shifting collection of dirty cubes and cups waiting to be washed, the ever-changing stack of bookfiles from the nearest library, the worn places on the mesh carpet from Jazz’s constant dancing, the lumps on Jazz’s berth that matched contours of his frame, even the way the second berthroom had been carefully cleaned and maintained and lacked any of these touches before Jazz had insisted Prowl start using it… Collections of personal effects could be feigned or falsified, but the detritus of long term habitation couldn’t.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell us about the conditions in the building?” Turbine leaned forward eagerly.

He was not a building inspector. Nor had he been in any residences other than Jazz’s, but, “The public areas -- the hallways and lobbies -- are clean. The landlord,” Jazz, “employs one of the femmes on the third floor to clean everything,” Friz had just had two sparklings, twins, and was grateful to be able to pay the rent without leaving her two littles unsupervised while she worked away from her home. He narrowed his optics in thought. The building was a fairly large job for a single domestic servant, but not unmanageably so. Moreover, even with the size of the job, a single domestic servant shouldn’t be able to pay her family's rent on a single job if the rent was exorbitant. Further, “Everything inside was repainted only a decaorn ago, after ripping out the old wallpaper.”

Taking out the wallpaper had been interesting. All the inhabitants had helped, and Jazz had even convinced Prowl to dedicate a few joors of his day off. There’d been no obligation to volunteer, but the landlord -- _Jazz_ \-- had provided energon for anyone who did, which had been considered adequate compensation by most. The painters had been local professionals, and the whole building still smelled like new paint. “A window in the lobby was fixed only two orns after it was broken by some locals throwing a lob-ball into it. All the lights work, and the locks are good.”

None of which was typical for rent fixers.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take a look-see at the others for us?”

Prowl didn’t need to think about that one. “No,” he said with a tilt of his doorwings that indicated absolute finality. “I am willing to bear witness to what I see or am shown -- up to and including offering my memories as evidence for verification of my testimony -- but I will not pry. Joining your investigation as anything besides an incidental witness is a conflict of interest that _neither_ the integrity of your investigation nor my personal integrity can afford.” He didn’t even think about Titanium’s threat until after he was finished with his refusal.

With an aggressive flare of his doorwings, Turbine slammed his hands down on the desk and stood, looming over Prowl. “Remember where your loyalties should be,” he snarled.

Prowl was not intimidated. He stood, flaring his own doorwings to go as far as they could and adding a subtle bristle to the lay of his armor, “I’m Homicide. My duty is to the unjustly dead.”

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Energy Field Sexual Interfacing in this chapter.

_“Prowl?”_

Jazz seemed surprised to actually hear from him. _That_ was something Prowl definitely needed to address. _“I apologize for my lateness, but there was paperwork that I needed to finish before ending my shift this orn. Where would you like to meet?”_

_“Depends on whether or not you’ve got a tail.”_

Despite the lightness of his tone, and the playful glyphs, Prowl gave the possibility serious contemplation. Deliberately he turned onto the highway that looped around Praxus. Evening traffic clogged the road, but his police markings earned him just enough space that driving wasn’t painful.

He cruised through the slow traffic. He didn’t need to really concentrate on the cars around him, he just let himself drift past half a dozen exits back down into the city.

When one of the cars that had originally followed him onto the highway pulled back into traffic four exits after leaving the highway to retake his position behind Prowl, he knew he had a tail. Several cars, rotating to keep from being spotted, though he’d only spotted that one so far. He’d identify the others when they switched off. Prowl had always been almost preternaturally aware of the people around him. He blamed his need to be more careful about keeping track of them to avoid accidentally touching anyone.

 _“I have a tail,”_ he confirmed to Jazz.

 _“Unless you feel like losing it, better meet at your apartment.”_  

Prowl could tell Jazz was being very careful to leave the choice of what to do in Prowl’s hands. Trust… Prowl couldn't help but to feel honored.

Prowl gave the choice serious thought. If he lost the tail, it would imply he had something to hide; if he didn’t, then his discussion with Jazz would have an audience he did not want to overhear something so private. And if he tried to lose the tail and _failed_ , then it would be the worst of both outcomes.

A desire for privacy -- for this one discussion, if not all future ones -- won out. Besides, it was too soon for Internal Affairs to have gotten involved in the situation. _“Give me a few joors to lose them. I don’t know if I can do it quickly.”_

_“‘Kay. I’ve got a gig at Sunset Spring tonight. I’ll tell ‘em you’re coming and they’ll let you in the back. We can talk afterward. That work?”_

Part of Prowl was miffed that Jazz wouldn’t be available immediately, but mostly he was relieved that Jazz wouldn't be brooding while Prowl took his time to do this right. _“Perfectly.”_

That arranged, and with several joors with which to do this _right_ , Prowl set about losing his tail.

It took him almost two joors to identify all of them. Three cars. He pulled up a map in his processor and marked their positions on it, timing their switch-offs. Outside his sensors’ range, he couldn’t be absolutely certain where they were, but he thought his estimates were fairly accurate, given how long it took each of them to reenter the highway and switch off. The traffic made keeping up with him easy, so as he watched one pull off the highway he followed. The one currently behind him was forced by traffic patterns to stay on the highway (he wasn’t wearing police paint that had mechs moving out of his way and giving him room). One was in front of him, and he turned onto a different street as soon as that one committed to driving straight through the intersection. The third was still five kliks from his current position. It would be three kliks before any of them had him in sight again.

Prowl took advantage of the reprieve, abruptly changing direction, driving through an alley between two streets, under the highway’s bridge, and then pulling into the swift traffic of a street going the opposite way. He spent another joor making sure that he’d lost them completely and hadn’t picked up another before heading to Sunset Spring.

Jazz was playing loud enough that the chords of his electric sitar could be heard from almost a block away. People gathered outside the venue to listen, parked next to each other cuddling chastely together in alt form. The Praxans flicked their doors open briefly in greeting as Prowl passed, and he slowed to do the same. He transformed as he pulled up to the side entrance used almost exclusively by employees, and pinged for entry. The music blasted out, unmuffled by the walls, when the door opened to allow him in. Prowl stuck to the kitchens and other employee areas until he found his way backstage. He caught a glimpse of the dance floor and shuddered; he was glad he wasn’t making his way through that crowd. They were mostly Praxans, but there were still so _many_ , all in various levels of intoxication, and he would have been a nervous, twitching wreck in a breem.

Instead he was backstage, having found a corner where he could watch Jazz and remain out of the way of the staff.

Jazz on a stage was grace incarnate, visor bright with excitement and energy field lashing out around him with an ecstasy that was very close to that felt during overload. Prowl could never tire of watching him. _This_ was who Jazz was.

_“It’s up to you, my teacher no longer - I am lost forever, letters from the night - Your truth is a little louder - Take that side, the way you take it all!”_

He held the last note long and clear then finished with a _thrum!_ across all the strings of the sitar, creating a musical cacophony that was quickly drowned out by the crowd’s cheering. Jazz smiled brilliantly to them, and Prowl knew that the answering increase in applause was because that smile had a way of seeming directed at each person in the crowd individually. With the lights Jazz could barely see the mechs currently cheering him on and calling for an encore, but he still smiled at each one.

“Awww…” Jazz drawled to quiet the crowd a bit, “I’d love ta stay and sing for you folks all night long,” the crowd surged and clapped and called out, and Jazz did another loud _thrum!_ across the strings of the sitar to get their attention again. “But I can’t, ‘cause then your DJ Brightlight would get _very_ _sad_ he didn’t get to play for all of you tonight. Let’s hear a song from him.” A spotlight illuminated the windowed sound room where an acid-green Praxan waved and immediately launched into a recorded version of one of Jazz’s songs, digitally remixed to maximize the beat. Jazz smiled again. “Come on! Let me see you dance!”

None of them were in any mood to protest, and soon Jazz was able to dance off the stage, practically unnoticed. “Prowl!”

Jazz’s field was intoxicating, euphoria whipping around him like the winds of a hurricane, and before his lover could remember the problems from this morning, before that gulf between them could open again, Prowl answered with his own field, lashing Jazz’s excitement with his own _pleasure-want_ strongly enough to make nearby lights flicker.

The singer’s fans, already on and bleeding heat into the air from the performance, kicked into a higher gear, and electricity flickered between the seams of his armor. “Privacy,” Jazz growled. “Now.”

“Lead the way,” Prowl answered mildly, seemingly unaffected.

The feedback loop of _lust/love-nearoverloadPrimusdamnit!_ between them kept the Praxan stage crew a polite distance away as Jazz led Prowl to the dressing room. Prowl gently shut and locked the door behind them an instant before Jazz was on him, stroking armor seams and pressing his overheated spike-cover against Prowl’s. Prowl was sorely tempted to just let his lover spike him, right there against the door, but he had something else in mind. He grabbed Jazz’s hand, and while his lover stilled, trying to figure out if that was a signal to back off or not, Prowl _twisted_ them both. Leverage and motion pressed Jazz face-first against the door, with Prowl leaning into his back.

Prowl felt Jazz tense -- he always did, a small, reflexive reaction that made so much more sense now -- before he consciously relaxed into Prowl’s grip, frame heating even more. Electricity crackled again, nipping at Prowl’s fingers. “Have I been a _bad_ mech?” he drawled, deliberately whipping his field back into a frenzy of _arousal-yes!_

“Yet to be determined,” Prowl answered, not quite willing to play the character of an arresting officer right now, even for a well-established interfacing game. He did cuff Jazz’s hands, but instead of cuffing them behind his back like a suspect, the way they usually played, Prowl cuffed Jazz’s hands in front, running the short chain through the door handle. Jazz tested this position, tugging his hands to see how far from the door he could pull, and Prowl was pleased when his lover wiggled happily. He stepped back, one deliberate step, leaving Jazz squirming against the door, panting and bleeding heat into the air like a seeker’s turbine. He reached forward, _almost_ touching, running his EMF like ghostly fingers through the wires and circuits of Jazz’s spinal struts. Jazz howled in response, struggling and pulling against the door, trying and failing to close that last bit of distance between his back plating and Prowl’s fingers. “You’re _so close_ ,” Prowl whispered.

 _Yes-more!_ lashed against his plating, and Prowl ruthlessly answered with _pleasure-mine_ of his own. Lightning crackled between them, static shocks of _pain-pleasure_ through their nervous systems in response to the constantly fluctuating polarity between them -- polarity that Prowl _kept_ fluctuating, preventing a perfect feedback loop, even as Jazz’s field lashed wildly in his effort to establish the connection that would sync their fields into a cascading loop of pleasure. Prowl chuckled, holding the building energy between them for as long as possible. The door shook on its hinges as Jazz struggled against the cuffs. Their fans _whirred_ loudly, and the scent of heated copper and ozone filled the too-small dressing room. The lights flickered, then finally died, their little diodes failing against the onslaught.

“So close,” Prowl whispered again in the darkness, while Jazz writhed helplessly against the door, close enough to touch but _not able to_ . “Overload for me, lover. _Jazz._ ” In time with his command, Prowl _finally_ allowed their fields to sync, completing the feedback loop. With an audible _crack!_ their fields flared into the visible spectrum, momentarily blinding them both.

.

.

Prowl rebooted. He was, as he always found himself after this particular activity, curled up on his side, still venting hard. He onlined his optics, blinking. It took a moment to recall that the odd darkness was because they’d blown out the lights, not because of an issue with his optical feed, then another moment before he figured out he could rectify that by turning on his headlights.

The first thing he saw in the resulting brightness was Jazz, slumped against the door in an awkward pile, hands still cuffed to the door handle. A sweep of the room revealed a soft mesh blanket he could use. Limbs still unsteady, he pried himself off the floor.

In the klik it took for him to return to Jazz with the blanket Jazz was starting to stir. “Shh,” Prowl soothed as he draped the blanket around his lover’s rapidly cooling form, the metal _tick-ticking_ in time with Prowl’s as the heat dissipated into the air. For Prowl, that coolness was uncomfortable but manageable; Jazz’s systems could go into shock if they cooled too rapidly. “Don’t move.” He secured the blanket around Jazz and felt a bit of discomfort drain from his field as he continued his boot sequence, just a bit warmer than he had been a moment ago.

The blanket served a dual purpose. Prowl winced as he had to lean against Jazz, chest to back, to reach the cuffs without inadvisably precarious contortions. It itch-burned immediately, but with the blanket there as a buffer against direct plating contact, it didn’t feel like acid being poured on his raw protoform. Gently he tucked Jazz’s hands with the rest of him, into the blanket-bundle. He was in the process of tucking the cushions from the dressing room lounge around Jazz’s still limp form, to try and make sure he had the warmth and cuddled feeling he craved any time they interfaced with the cuffs in play, when his visor lit up.

“Prowl?” Jazz managed with only a slight slur.

“Right here,” Prowl answered. He would much prefer to have retreated to the dressing room’s hot shower, but he always made a point to stay by his lover’s side, as close as he could, until Jazz was secure, safe, and recovered enough for him to step away.

“...Dream?” Jazz’s visor was overly bright as he looked at Prowl, increasing the sensitivity of his optical band in an attempt to take in all the details he could; Prowl dimmed his headlights to keep from overwhelming his lover’s visual feed with painful brightness.

“ _No,_ ” Prowl said firmly. “You are not dreaming.”

Jazz was always just a bit disconnected from reality after they played this sort of interfacing game. Combined with what Jazz must have been thinking while Prowl was at work, he was not surprised that Jazz would ask. Prowl sat down on the floor next to the bundle of blankets that contained Jazz, carefully arranged a thick pillow over his lap, then pulled the Jazz-bundle onto the pillow. There was a bit of discomfort, but tolerable, and Prowl was not leaving Jazz alone in this state. Jazz relaxed, snuggling into Prowl’s warmth where it soaked through the pillow and sighing happily.

Gently and oh-so-carefully, Prowl ran the barest tip of his finger over Jazz’s audial horn. The contact felt like stabbing a hot needle into his finger, but he was rewarded with a slow reset of Jazz’s visor, it flickering off, then back on as he consciously rebooted the system. The over-brightness was gone when it came back up. “Hello there,” Prowl said softly.

A long pause while that penetrated still-fuzzy circuits, then an actual response. “Hello,” no slurring, which was good. “I guess that answers the question of whether you still want me. I didn’t have you pegged for the goodbye-frag type.”

Actual sentences were even better than clear single words, but those particular sentences were still filled with the fear that Prowl might leave, which was bad.

“I’m _not_ leaving you,” Prowl punctuated his assertion with a gentle flick against Jazz’s audial horn that made them both wince. “Once I’m sure you’re alright, I’m going to take a shower and then we’re going to talk about what this means for us going forward. But this…” and Prowl deliberately repeated the words Jazz had once used when it had been Prowl worried his problems were insurmountable, “this isn’t anything but a bump. We’ll get through it.”

Jazz’s visor went overbright again, then dimmed as he wiggled and desperately clung to Prowl’s pillow-buffered warmth. He shivered, and Prowl endured the acid-burn long enough to check the temperature inside the blanket-bundle. Finding it cooler than was healthy for Jazz, he wished this room had more blankets, but it didn’t. So he tucked the extra pillows closer, trying to use them to hold in Jazz’s heat, and increased his own systems’ output to compensate. Slowly the shivers eased and were replaced by a happy purring of his systems. Prowl checked the temperature inside the blanket again, and was relieved to find it warming up, as Jazz’s systems resumed proper temperature regulation.

A thought occurred to him: Prowl’s own after-sex routine involved a scalding hot bath. He didn’t have issues with regulating his temperature after overload, but the heat reset his sensornet. Jazz always accompanied him into the washroom, leaning against the tub to talk, even though the bath did heat up the room considerably… Was this always an issue with Jazz, even after other forms of interfacing? Obviously Jazz didn’t have this sort of extreme temperature-crash after spiking Prowl, but if he always ran cool after an overload, it would explain why he never seemed to mind the heat while taking care of Prowl. He called himself a _post-coital cuddler just trying to stay close to my lover_ , but maybe the desire to snuggle had a physiological component as well. If so, then Prowl _could_ help, even with his own inability to indulge in post-sex cuddling.

Despite the way it was starting to seem like scraplets were crawling across his doorwings, it felt good to take care of Jazz. Prowl resolved to do it more often.

It was almost four breems of pillow-buffered snuggling before Jazz’s visor brightened again. He stirred, and Prowl helped him out of the cocoon. “You need…” Jazz started to say.

Prowl shushed him. “This time, you needed more.”

Jazz chuckled. “Ain’t gonna argue with that. Sorry to say this place don’t have a tub.”

“I’ll make do with a shower, then we can talk.” He thought a moment about heat, and too-cool plating, and Jazz’s desire for closeness. “Let’s see if we’ll both fit.”

Jazz’s visor brightened in surprise. “‘Kay,” he finally said.

Jazz didn’t think it was big enough. If it were anyone but Jazz that Prowl were trying to share with, the shower would not have been big enough. But to Jazz’s bemusement, this time Prowl was determined, and he fussed with their positions and the showerhead until Jazz was contentedly curled up in one tiled corner and Prowl was standing under the hot cleanser, with so little space between them that if either started _venting too hard_ they’d touch and this effort would be for naught.

With a sigh of relief, Prowl turned on the heat as far as it would go, and felt his sensornet slowly reset under the overwhelming onslaught of that one non-touch stimulus.

Hydraulics relaxed, wires loosened, his armor heated to near annealing temperature… The cleanser hissed and steamed where it hit his plating, the tile, and Jazz (who actually purred at the heat, and Prowl smiled to himself at this support for his guess). The steam was drawn into Prowl’s vents, overwhelming his cooling systems and condensing on his filters. Moisture bled every bit of excess electricity from him, and slowly he allowed the heat to overwhelm his senses.

He blinked his optics back on when the cleanser shut off abruptly. He saw that Jazz had squirmed around to reach the faucet without brushing up against Prowl. Jazz smiled at Prowl’s vaguely confused look. “Hot cleanser was almost out; didn’t want either of us getting cold.”

“Of course,” Prowl said. “My thanks.” He stepped away, out of the tiny stall, to give Jazz room to do the same. Separately they reached for towels and dried off.

.

.

“I was afraid they’d convince you ta arrest me, or worse, ta leave,” Jazz said a breem later. They’d picked up the cushions and were now sitting, facing each other, on the couch in the lounge. Jazz was once again wrapped in the blanket. Jazz’s foot rested comfortably on top of Prowl’s and every few kliks, Prowl brushed his other foot along Jazz’s to return the comfort, a small touch he could actually tolerate for almost a joor most orns. “Was angry at m’uncle for jutting his sensors where they weren’t wanted, endangering you, _threatening_ you. Just… all sorts of angry and afraid. Was ready ta start begging when you came back, didn’t have any pride ta preserve. Even rehearsed it in the mirror before the gig.”

“I am glad to have preempted it,” Prowl said. “I don’t want to see you like that. Lieutenant Turbine and his partner did try to convince me that you were a criminal, but their evidence had some very glaring errors in it.”

He heard Jazz’s vents stall. “M’family’s Family,” Jazz said slowly, almost as though it was easier to believe that Prowl didn’t understand the implications of that, than to believe that Prowl was alright with it.

“And you own some low-rent apartment buildings -- probably on your uncle’s behalf, with him getting a cut of the profits -- that Turbine attempted to convince me were tenements only a step up from lean-tos. He did not realize I had been in at least one of those buildings and could see very well for myself that it was a very nice building, given the low rent you’re charging. He had no other evidence of anything else you might be doing on your Family’s behalf.” Prowl ended the sentence with a _confirmation requested_ glyph, turning the statement into a very mild sort of question.

“No,” Jazz obliged. “Ain’t doing anything else for the Family. Ain’t even doing this _for_ them -- Uncle gave m’the buildings when I moved ta Praxus ‘cause I didn’t have any sort of income, and I keep them ‘cause if I didn’t have them I’d need an actual, y’know, _job_ , and that’d cut into my performance schedule.” Prowl nodded. That’s almost exactly what he’d concluded. “I’m out -- as much as anyone in my position can be, anyway. That’s why I’m in Praxus, ‘cause I know -- _knew_ , since it’s all prolly been changed by now, too much about m’sire’s business for it to be safe for me to try and go legit in Polyhex. Had too many enemies of m’own.”

Which meant Jazz’s only crime, in Praxus, was keeping his family’s confidences, and if he was _out_ , as he claimed, Jazz was probably careful to know as little as possible about his uncle’s business.

“If I find evidence of a crime, or find out about one that’s about to be committed, I am obligated to act on that information,” Prowl said quietly. It wasn’t quite true, since he routinely ignored things his snitches did, if they were minor enough, but that was a clear quid-pro-quo arrangement, while this was laying down the rules he and Jazz would have to live by, if they were to have the relationship they both wanted. “But I have no more reason to go digging for that evidence than I would if your family were anyone else. You are not guilty by association with them, and even they are innocent until proven guilty. I cannot work cases where you or your family are involved, because of the conflict of interest, but I may be asked to consult on a limited basis. Especially if I am perceived as a relative expert in the social networks, hierarchies and geography of Little Polyhex.”

“Just… keep you out of it?” Jazz asked uncertainly.

“Do not ask me to endanger my integrity by covering for your family, because I will not,” Prowl corrected. As far as he was concerned, there was no question of ever having to cover for Jazz -- Jazz wasn’t a criminal. “However, I will not _dig_. Even if I am given reason to, I will pass the case to another officer.”

“I won’t,” his lover promised. “It’s not like they don’t know you’re hanging around; they let you see something, it’s their own slagging fault. I just,” and here Jazz averted his visor, looking down at where their feet touched. “Integrity goes both ways, dig? You can’t expect me to spill just because you’re m’beau, specially if you’re gonna pass the questioning on to someone else. I ain’t keeping secrets, really, at th’moment, but th’possibility exists, and if we’re laying out ground rules right now, that’s gotta be one.”

Strong clan loyalties. It was one of the tenets of Polyhexian society, and was one of the reasons the _No Fly Zone_ existed within Little Polyhex, one of the reasons it was so hard to get any real evidence that impacted the power and influence of the Families within the ghetto. That, and the Families protected the citizens of Polyhex as much as preyed on them. Outside Polyhex, the Families flourished in the ghettos because the immigrants still turned to them for that protection. If Prowl was going to be accepted into that web of reputation and respect, as the events leading up to and at the block party had shown he could be, then he had to respect Jazz’s loyalty to his clan.

Could he live with that?

In his processor he could see several ways this could play out. He and Jazz could decide that their mutual duties and loyalties were in too much conflict and go their separate ways; nothing would change, for them or for the webs of duty and loyalty they held dear. Or they could try and fail, and turn a simmering cold war of cultural differences between native Praxans and immigrant Polyhexians into a harsh racial conflict. Or their clans could reach out to each other now, and both sides be better for it. Could he live with that? _Serve and protect_ … Slagging yes, he could live with that.

“I respect your loyalty to your clan,” Prowl said softly, and Jazz gave him a tentative smile. “Can you respect my duty to mine?” And the smile turned uncertain; Praxans didn’t have clans, as Polyhexians understood the term, but Prowl didn’t let him flounder in uncertainty long. “Praxus, Jazz. _All_ of Praxus, including your corner of it.”

It was about reputation, after all. The immigrants trusted the Families’ protection because they knew them, good and ill. The Praxan police, on the other hand, only had a reputation for discrimination and persecution -- no positive reputation to counterbalance that. But if, through Jazz, Prowl entered that community, he would gain a reputation of his own, and then that reputation could be extended to officers he vouched for, if only on a case by case basis for a while. That would allow them to investigate crimes, instead of those investigations stalling at the edge of the _No Fly Zone_.

That was in the long-term. In the short term, all this depended on Prowl maintaining his integrity, on remaining trusted by the Police. Which meant he had to do as he said, and report any criminal activity he saw (at least up to a point), and keep himself off of any cases in which there was a conflict of interest. It was dangerous, there were a thousand missteps any number of people could make along the way, but Prowl thought the risk worth it, as long as Jazz stood by his side.

A moment of shocked silence, and then Jazz let out a bright peal of laughter, relieved and beautiful. Prowl felt warmer for hearing it.

“Have I ever told you,” Jazz panted as his vents hiccupped, “that I absolutely _love_ your mind?”

What could Prowl say to that? “Yes,” he ventured cautiously, which only set Jazz off laughing again.

.

.

End


End file.
